e villagers burrowed
and delved and hunted and pried, as villagers are prone to do when a
person appears among them and keeps his affairs strictly to himself.

But the next generation partly forgot, and the present only
indifferently remembered that, once upon a time, a French _emigre_ had
lived and died up there. They knew all there was to know about the
present owner. It was all compactly written and pictured in a book of
history, which book agents sold over the land, even here in Dalton.

All these things Fitzgerald and his companion learned from the driver
on the journey up the incline.

"Where was this Frenchman buried?" inquired Breitmann softly.

"In th' cemet'ry jest over th' hill. But nobody knows jest where he is
now. Stone's gone, an' th' ground's all level that end. He wus on'y a
Frenchman. But th' admiral, now you're talkin'! He pays cash, an'
don't make no bargain rates, when he wants a job done. Go wan, y' ol'
nag; what y' dreamin' of?"

"There might be history in that corner of the graveyard," said
Breitmann.

"Who knows? Good many strange bits of furniture found their way over
here during those tremendous times. Beautiful place in the daytime;
eh?" Fitzgerald added, with an inclination toward The Pines.

"More like an Italian villa than an Englishman's home. Good gardeners,
I should say."

"Culture and money will make a bog attractive."

"Is the admiral cultured, then?"

"I should imagine so. But I am sure the daughter is. Not that veneer
which passes for it, but that deep inner culture, which gives a deft,
artistic touch to the hand, softens the voice, gives elegance to the
carriage, with a heart and mind nicely balanced. Judge for yourself,
when you see her. If there is any rare knickknack in the house, it
will have been put there by the mother's hand or the daughter's. The
admiral, I believe, occupies himself with his books, his butterflies,
and his cruises."

"A daughter. She is cultured, you say? Ah, if culture would only take
beauty in hand! But always she selects the plainer of two women."

Fitzgerald smiled inwardly. "I have told you she is not plain."

"Oh, beautiful," thoughtfully. "Culture and beauty; I shall be pleased
to observe."

"H'm! If there is any marrow in your bones, my friend, you'll show
more interest when you see her." This was thought, not spoken.
Fitzgerald wasn't going to rhapsodize over Miss Killigrew's charms. It
would have been not